kind eyes were smiling at him through the dotted veil tied under her chin.
That was all Petya could remember. There was a faint trace of a long past
grief that time had healed, the fear of his own death, and the gold letters
of Mother's name on the white marble slab from which the sexton had
carelessly brushed the snow just before they had arrived. Next to it was
Grandma's grave, and there was a vacant place between the two graves where,
as Vasily Petrovich was wont to say, he would one day be laid at rest
between his mother and his wife, the two women he had loved so faithfully
and steadfastly.
Petya crossed himself and bowed at the proper moments, he kept thinking
about his mother, and, at the same time, observed the priest, the
psalm-reader, Father, Pavlik, and Auntie. Pavlik was fidgeting all the time,
the turned-up hood irritated his ears and he kept tugging at it. Auntie was
weeping into her muff quietly. Father stood with eyes fixed on the
tombstone, his folded hands held humbly before him and his greying head with
the long seminarist's hair bent low. Petya knew Father was thinking about
Mother. But he had no idea of the terrible conflict raging within him.
Especially now did Vasily Petrovich miss her, her love, and her moral
support. He thought of the day when he, an eager young man, had read to her
his essay on Pushkin, of how they had both discussed it long and heatedly,
of the glorious morning, when he had put on his new uniform and was standing
in the hall, ready to set out to read his essay, and she had handed him his
freshly-pressed handkerchief, still warm from the hot iron, kissed him
fondly, and crossed him with her thin fingers; and afterwards, when he had
returned home in triumph, they had had a hearty dinner and little Petya,
whom they were training to be an independent young man, had smeared his
porridge all over his fat cheeks and kept repeating, "Daddy! Eat!" his black
eyes sparkling. How long ago, and yet, how close it all seemed! Now Vasily
Petrovich had to decide his fate alone.
For the first time in his life he understood clearly something that he
either could not or refused to understand before: that it was impossible in
Russia to be an honest and independent person if one held a government job.
One had to be a docile tsarist official, with no views of one's own, and
obey the orders of other officials-one's superiors-unquestioningly, no
matter how unjust or even criminal they might be. But worst of all, as far
as Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was the fact that the one responsible for
this state of affairs was none other than the Russian autocrat himself, the
Anointed of the Lord, in whose sanctity and infallibility Vasily Petrovich
had trusted so deeply and implicitly.
Now that this trust had been shaken, Vasily Petrovich turned
whole-heartedly to religion. He offered up prayers for his dead wife, and
implored divine help and guidance. But his prayers no longer brought him
consolation. He crossed himself, bowed low, and yet somehow or other he
seemed to see the priest and psalm-reader, who were rushing through the
service, in a new and different light. Their words and actions no longer
created the religious atmosphere of former years, but, instead, seemed
crude, unnatural, as if Vasily Petrovich himself was not praying, but only
observing two shamans performing some rite. That which formerly had moved
him deeply was now bereft of all its poetry.
The priest, in a mourning chasuble of brocade with a silver cross
embroidered on the back, his short arms wrapped in the dark sleeves of a
protruding tunic, was chanting the beautiful words of the requiem as he
deftly swung the censer to and fro, making the hot coals glow like rubies.
Purple smoke poured from it, turned grey quickly and melted in the wind,
leaving the air heavy with incense.
The psalm-reader had an enormous moustache and his winter overcoat was
exactly like Vasily Petrovich's, even to the frayed velvet collar. His
bulging eyes were reverently half closed, and his voice rose and fell as he
quickly echoed the priest's singing. Both priest and psalm-reader made a
pretence of not hurrying, although Vasily Petrovich could see they were
rushing the service, as they had to officiate at other graves where they
were eagerly awaited and whence impatient relatives were already signalling
them. Their relief was evident when they finally reached the last part and
put all their energy behind the words "the tears at the grave turn to
singing," etc., after which the Bachei family kissed the cold silver cross,
and while the psalm-reader was hurriedly wrapping it up in the stole, Vasily
Petrovich shook the priest's hand and awkwardly pressed two silver rubles
into his palm. The priest said, "I thank you!" and added, "I hear that
you're having trouble with the Education Department. Have faith in the Lord,
perhaps there is a way out. Good-bye for the present. Dreadful weather,
isn't it? A regular blizzard."
Vasily Petrovich had caught a faint trace of insult in those words.
Petya saw his face turn red. Suddenly there flashed into Vasily Petrovich's
mind the Education Department official bawling at him and his own
humiliating fear, and once again the feeling of pride, which until then he
had tried so hard to subordinate to Christian humility, welled up in him. At
that moment he decided that not for anything in the world would he
surrender, and if necessary he would suffer all the consequences for the
sake of Truth.
However, once they had returned home from the cemetery and he had
calmed down a little, his former doubts returned: had he the right to
jeopardize his family?
Meanwhile, the school holidays pursued their usual course, the only
difference being that this time they were not as jolly or as carefree as in
previous years.
Tedious and tiresome as usual was the waiting for nightfall on
Christmas Eve; appetizing smells drifted in from the kitchen while they
awaited the appearance of the first star in the window-the signal to light
the lamps and sit down to dinner and Christmas pudding. They had the usual
Christmas party next day, and carol-singers came in carrying a star hung
with tinsel and a round paper icon in the centre. Blue diamonds of moonlight
glittered festively and mysteriously on the frosted window-panes, and on New
Year's Eve there was apple pie with a new silver coin hidden in it for good
luck. The regimental bands played as usual in the clear, frosty noonday for
the Twelfth-Day parade on Cathedral Square. The holidays were coming to an
end. Some kind of decision had to be made. Vasily Petrovich became
despondent, and his depression affected the boys. Auntie alone tried to keep
up the holiday spirit. She put on a new silk dress, and all her favourite
rings were brought out to adorn her slender fingers; she smelled of "Coeur
de Jeannette" perfume, and she would sit at the piano, open a large folio,
and play Madame Vyaltseva's repertoire of waltzes, polkas, and gipsy
serenades. On Twelfth-Day Eve she decided to have the traditional
fortune-telling. They poured cold water into a basin and dropped melted
paraffin into it, as they had no wax, and then interpreted the various
shapes it froze into; in the kitchen they burned balls of crumpled paper and
then told the meaning of the shadows cast by them on the freshly whitewashed
wall. But there was something strained in all this.
Late at night-the last night of the school holidays-Petya, who was
drowsing off to sleep, again heard Father and Auntie talking heatedly in the
dining-room.
"You cannot and you must not do such a thing!" Auntie was saying in an
excited voice. "What then?" Father asked, and there was a sharp click as he
cracked his knuckles. "What shall I do? How shall we live? Have I the right
to do this? What a tragedy that Zhenya is no longer with us!"
"Believe me, if Zhenya were here now, she would never let you grovel
before these officials!"
Petya soon fell asleep and did not hear any more, but an astonishing
thing happened the next morning: for the first time in his life Vasily
Petrovich did not put on his frock-coat and did not go to his classes.
Instead, the cook was sent to the shop for "ministerial" stationery, and
Vasily Petrovich wrote out his resignation in his clear flowing hand,
unadorned by flourishes or curlicues.
His resignation was accepted coldly. However, there was no further
unpleasantness-apparently, it was not in the interests of the Education
Department to have the story spread round. And so, Vasily Petrovich found
himself out of a job, the most terrible thing that could hap-
pen to a family man with no other means of support except his salary.
Vasily Petrovich had put aside a little money a long time ago; he had
dreamed of going abroad with his wife, and then, after her death, with his
'boys. Now that dream evaporated. This money, together with what he would
get from the mutual aid society, would see the family through the next year,
if they lived frugally. But it was still a mystery how they were to exist
after that, especially as another question arose: how were Petya and Pavlik
to continue at the gymnasium? As the sons of a teacher they had been exempt
from tuition fees; now, however, he would have to pay out of their meagre
budget a sum that was beyond his means.
But worst of all, where Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was his
enforced idleness, for he had been used to work all his life. He did not
know what to do with himself and hung around the house for days on end in
his old jacket, forgetting to go to the barber's, looking older every day,
and making frequent visits to the cemetery where he spent long hours at his
wife's grave.
Pavlik, still too young to be touched by the terrible thing that had
befallen them, continued his former carefree existence. But Petya understood
everything. The thought that he would have to leave school, remove the
cockade from his cap and wear his uniform with hooks instead of shiny metal
buttons, as was the case with boys who had been expelled or had not
matriculated, made him blush with shame. Things were aggravated by an
ominous change in the attitude of the teachers and some of his class-mates.
In short, the New Year could not have begun worse. Petya was most
unhappy and was amazed to see that Auntie, far from being upset or
down-hearted, gave the impression of everything being fine. There was a look
of determination in her eye which implied that she was going to save the
family at all costs.
Her plan was as follows: she would serve tasty, nourishing, and
inexpensive home-cooked meals to working intellectuals, which, to her mind,
would yield enough to keep the family in food. In order to add to the income
Auntie decided to move into the dining-room, move the cook into the kitchen,
and let the two rooms, thus vacated, with board.
Father winced painfully at the mere thought of his home being turned
into an "eating-house," but as there was no other way out, he gave in and
said:
"Do whatever you think best."
That was Auntie's green light. "To let" notices that could be read
clearly from the street were pasted on the windows of the two rooms. On the
gate-post they nailed a little board that said: "Dinners served." It had
been done artistically in oils by Petya and depicted a steaming tureen with
the inscription mentioning single working intellectuals. Auntie believed
that this would impart a social, political, and even an opposition note to
their commercial undertaking. She began to buy new kitchen utensils and put
in a stock of the best and freshest foods; she had a new calico dress and
snow-white apron made for Dunyasha and spent most of her time studying the
Molokhovets Cookery Book, that bible of every well-to-do home. She copied
the most useful recipes into a special notebook and made up tasty and
nourishing menus.
Never before had the Bachei family eaten so well-or, rather, feasted
so. After a month's time they had all put on weight, including Vasily
Petrovich, a fact that seemed strangely at variance with his status of a man
persecuted by the government.
All would have gone well, perhaps even brilliantly, had it not been for
the lack of customers. One might have thought that all the professional
people had agreed never to dine again.
True, the first few days brought some customers. Two well-dressed
bearded gentlemen with sunken cheeks and a fanatical glitter in their eyes
called, discovered that there were no vegetarian dishes on the menu, and
stamped out without bothering to say good-bye.
Then a saucy orderly in a peakless cap, serving in the Modlinsky
Regiment, came in at the back door and asked for two portions of
cabbage-soup for his officer. Auntie explained that there was no
cabbage-soup on the menu, but that there was soupe printaniere. That, said
the soldier, was quite all right with him, provided there was plenty of
bread to go with it, as his gentleman had lost all his money at cards and
was sitting in his quarters with a bad cold and nothing hot in his stomach
for nearly two days. Auntie gave him two portions of soupe printaniere and
plenty of bread on credit, and the orderly doubled down the stairs on his
short, thick legs in worn-down boots, leaving the heavy odour of an infantry
barracks in the kitchen. Two days later he appeared again; this time he
carried off two portions of bouillon and meat patties, also on credit, and
promised to pay as soon as his gentleman won back his money; apparently, his
gentleman never did, because the soldier disappeared for good.
No one else came to dine.
As far as letting the two rooms was concerned, things were not much
better. The very day they put the little cards in the window a newly-wed
couple made inquiries: he was a young army surgeon, and everything he had on
was new and resplendent; she was a plump, dimpled blonde with a beauty-mark
over her Cupid's-bow lips, wearing a squirrel-lined cloak and pert bonnet,
and carrying a tiny muff on a cord. They seemed to be the personification of
happiness. Their new, twenty-four carat gold wedding-rings shone so
dazzlingly, they were surrounded by such a fragrant aroma of scented soap,
cold cream, brilliantine, hair tonic, and Brokar perfume, the mixture of
which seemed to Petya the very essence of newly-weddedness, that the Bachei
flat with its old wallpaper and poorly-waxed floors suddenly appeared to be
small, shabby, and dark.
While the young couple was looking over the rooms, the husband never
once let go of his wife's arm, as if he were afraid she'd run off somewhere;
the wife, in turn, pressed close to him as she looked round in horror and
exclaimed in a loud singsong voice:
"Dahling, it's a barm! It's a real bahn! It smells like a kitchen! No,
no, it's not at all what we're looking for!"
They left hurriedly. The army surgeon's silver spurs tinkled
delicately, and the young wife raised her skirts squeamishly and stepped
gingerly as if afraid to soil her tiny new shoes. It was only after the
downstairs door had banged behind them that Petya realized the strange
foreign word "bahn" was just plain "barn," and he felt so hurt he could have
cried. Auntie's ears were still burning long after they had gone.
No one else came to see the rooms. And so Auntie's plans failed. The
spectre of poverty again rose up before the Bachei family. Despair banished
all hopes. Who knows what the outcome would have been, if salvation had not
come one fine day-out of the blue, as it always does.
It was really a glorious day, one of those March days when the snow has
melted, the earth is black, a watery blueness breaks through the clouds over
the bare branches of the orchards, a fresh breeze sweeps the first dust
along the dry pavements, and the incessant tolling of the Lenten bells booms
over the city like a great bass string. The bakeries sold pastry "skylarks"
with charred raisin eyes, and swarms of rooks circled over Cathedral Square,
over the huge corner house, over Libman's Cafe, and over the double-headed
eagle above Gayevsky's, the chemist's, their spring din and clamour drowning
out the sounds of the city.
It was a day Petya would long remember. It was the day he became a
tutor and, for the first time in his life, was to be paid for a Latin lesson
he gave to another boy. This other boy was Gavrik.
A few days before, on his way home from school, Petya was walking along
slowly, lost in unhappy thoughts and visualizing the day in the near future
when he would be expelled from the gymnasium for arrears of fees.
Suddenly, someone crashed into him from behind and punched his satchel
so hard that his pencil-box shook and clattered. Petya stumbled and nearly
fell; he turned, ready to charge his unseen enemy, and saw Gavrik, his feet
planted apart and a grin on his face.
"Hi, Petya! Where've you been all this time?"
"It's you, you tramp! You're a fine chap, hitting one of your own!"
"Go on! I socked the satchel, not you."
"What if I had fallen?"
"I'd have caught you."
"How are things?"
"Not too bad. Earning a living."
Gavrik lived in Near Mills and Petya rarely saw him nowadays, but their
childhood friendship was as strong as ever. Whenever they would meet and ask
each other the usual "How are things?" Petya would shrug his shoulders and
answer, "Still at school," while Gavrik would furrow his small round
forehead and say, "Earning la living." Each time they met, Petya would hear
the latest story, which inevitably ended the same way: either the current
employer had gone bankrupt or he had cheated Gavrik out of his pay. Such was
the case with the owner of the bathing beach between Sredny Fontan and
Arcadia who had employed Gavrik for the season to unlock the bathing-boxes,
take charge of hiring the striped bathing-suits, and keep an eye on the
bathers' clothes. The beach owner disappeared at the end of the season
without paying him a kopek, all he had had in the end were his tips. It was
the same with the Greek who had hired a gang of dockers and who had brazenly
cheated the men out of more than half their wages. It was the same again
when he had worked as bill-poster, and on many of the other jobs which he
had taken in the hope of being at least a little help to Terenty's family
and at the same time earning a bit for himself.
It was much more fun, although just as unprofitable in the long run, to
work in the "Bioscope Realite" cinema on Richelieu Street, near the
Alexandrovsky police-station In those days the cinema, that famous invention
of the Lumiere brothers, was no longer a novelty, but, none the less, the
magic of "moving pictures" continued to amaze the world. Cinemas mushroomed
up all over the city, -and they became known as "illusions."
An "illusion" signified a multi-coloured electric-light bill-board,
sometimes even with moving letters, and the bravura thunder of the pianola,
a mechanical piano whose keys were pressed down and raced back and forth
automatically, instilling in the audience a greater feeling of awe towards
the inventions of the 20th century. Usually there were slot-machines in the
foyer, and if you put five kopeks in the slot a bar of chocolate would slip
out mysteriously, or brightly-coloured sugar eggs would roll out from under
a bronze hen. Sometimes there would be a wax figure on exhibition in a glass
case. As yet there were no specially built theatres for the "illusions," and
the general practice was to rent a flat and use the largest room for the
screen.
Madame Valiadis, widow of a Greek, an enterprising and highly
imaginative woman, owned the "Bioscope Realite." She decided to wipe out all
her rivals at once. To this end she first engaged Mr. Zingertal, a famous
singer of topical ditties, to appear before each showing, and second, she
decided to revolutionize the silent film by introducing sound effects.
Crowds thronged to the "Bioscope Realite."
Mr. Zingertal, the popular favourite, duly appeared before each
performance in front of a small screen in the former dining-room decorated
with old flowered paper, a room as long and narrow as a pencil-box.
Zingertal, a tall, thin Jew, wore a rather long frock-coat, yellowed pique
vest, striped trousers, white spats and a black top hat which pressed down
on his protruding ears. With a Mephistophelian smile on his long,
clean-shaven, lined and hollow-cheeked face, he sang the popular tunes of
the day, accompanying himself on a tiny violin, tunes such as "The Odessa
girl is the girl for me," "The soldier boys are marching," and, finally, his
hit song "Zingertal, my robin, play me on your violin." Then Madame Valiadis
came on, wearing an ostrich hat and opera gloves minus the fingers to show
off her rings; she sat at the battered old piano and, as the lights dimmed,
began pounding out the accompaniment.
The lamp of the projector hissed, the film buzzed and rattled on, and
tiny, cramped red or blue captions, which seemed to have been typed on a
typewriter, appeared on the screen. Then, in quick succession, carne the
shorts: a panorama of a cloudy Swiss lake that moved along jerkily and with
great effort, followed by a Pathe news-reel with a train thundering into a
station and a parade of helmeted, goose-stepping foreign soldiers who
flashed by so quickly that they seemed to be running-all this was seen as if
through a veil of rain or snow. Then Bleriot's monoplane emerged from the
clouds for an instant-his famous Channel flight from Calais to Dover. Then
came the comedy, and this was Madame Valiadis' greatest moment. Behind the
flickering veil of raindrops a little monkey-like man called Knucklehead,
learning to ride a bicycle, kept bumping into things and knocking them over;
the audience not only saw all this, they heard it as well. The crash and
tinkle of falling glass accompanied the shattering of street lamps on the
screen. Pails banged and clattered as house-painters in blouses tumbled off
ladders and landed on the pavement. Dozens of dinner-sets were smashed to
bits as they slid and dropped from the display window of a china shop. A cat
mewed hysterically when the bicycle wheels rolled over its tail. The enraged
crowd shook their fists and chased the fleeing Knucklehead. Police whistles
screamed. Dogs barked. A fire-engine tore past. Bursts of laughter shook the
darkened "illusion" room. And all the while, unseen by the audience, Gavrik
sweated, earning his fifty kopeks a day. It was he who waited for his cue to
smash the crockery, blow a whistle, bark, mew, ring a bell, shout "Catch
him! Hold him!", stamp his feet to give the effect of a running mob, and
dump on the floor a crate of broken glass, drowning out the unmerciful
pounding on the battered keys that was Ma dame Valiadis' contribution on the
other side of the screen.
Petya helped Gavrik on several occasions. The two of them would raise
such a rumpus behind the screen that crowds would gather in the street. The
popularity of the electric theatre grew tremendously.
But the avaricious widow was far from satisfied. Aware that the public
liked politics, she ordered Zingertal to freshen up his repertoire with
something political, and then raised the price of admission. Zingertal
shrugged his shoulders, smiled his Mephistophelian smile and said, "As you
wish"; next day he appeared with a new number entitled "Neckties, neckties"
instead of the old "The soldier boys are marching."
Pressing the tiny violin to his shoulder with his blue horse-like chin,
he flourished his bow, winked slyly at the audience, and, hinting at
Stolypin, began:
Our Premier, Mr. X,
Hangs ties on people's necks,
A habit which we dreadfully deplore....
Zingertal was thrown out of the city within twenty-four hours; Madame
Valiadis, forced to piay enormous bribes to the police and to close her
"illusion," was ruined, while Gavrik was paid only a quarter of what he had
earned.
GAVRIK'S DREAM
Now Gavrik was standing next to 'Petya in a greasy blue cotton smock
over a tattered coat with a worn-out Astrakhan collar and cap to match, like
those warn by middle-aged bookbinders, type-setters and waiters. ' Petya
realized immediately that his friend had changed jobs again and was earning
his daily bread at some other trade.
Gavrik was going on fifteen. His voice had changed to a youthful bass.
He had not grown very much, but his shoulders were broader and stronger, and
there were fewer freckles on his nose. His features had become more definite
and his clear eyes were firm. And yet, there was still much of the child
about him-such as his deliberate rolling sailor's gait, his habit of
wrinkling his round forehead when puzzled by something- and his amazing
accuracy in spitting through tightly-clenched teeth.
"Well, where are you working now?" Petya asked, his eyes taking in
Gavrik's strange outfit.
"In the Odessa Leaflet print-shop."
"Tell me another!"
"It's the truth!"
"What do you do there?"'
"I deliver the ad proofs to the clients."
"Proofs?" Petya said doubtfully.
"Sure, proofs. Why?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Maybe you've never seen proof-sheets? Here, I'll show you some. See?"
With these words Gavrik put his hand into the breast pocket of his
smock and pulled out a couple of packets of wet paper reeking of kerosene.
"Let me see!" Petya cried, grabbing a packet.
"Keep your paws off," Gavrik said good-naturedly, not at all in anger
or from a desire to offend Petya, but out of sheer habit.
"Come here, I'll show them to you."
The boys walked over to an iron post near the gates, and Gavrik
unrolled a damp paper covered all over with newspaper advertisements as
black and as greasy as shoe polish. Most of them were illustrated, and Petya
immediately recognized them from the pages of the Odessa Leaflet, which the
Bachei family took in. Here were the Fleetfoot Shoes and the Guide Galoshes,
waterproofs with peaked hoods sold by Lurie Bros., Faberge diamonds in open
jewel cases, with black lines radiating from them, bottles of Shustov's
rowan-berry brandy, theatre lyres, furriers' tigers, harness-makers' steeds,
the black cats of fortune-tellers and palmists, skates, carriages, toys,
suits, fur coats, pianos and balalaikas, biscuits and elaborate cream cakes,
Lloyd's ocean liners, and railway locomotives. And, finally, there were the
impressive-looking, long, uninterrupted columns of joint-stock company
reports and bank balances, showing their investments and fantastic
dividends.
Gavrik's small, strong, ink-stained hands held the damp newspaper
sheet, that magic, miniature record of the wealth of a big industrial and
trading centre, so far beyond the reach of Gavrik and the thousands of other
ordinary working people like him.
"There you are!" Gavrik said, and when he noticed that Petya seemed to
be reflecting on the nature of man's wealth, an exercise in which he himself
had often indulged when reading the ads or the signs and posters, he sighed
and added, "Proofs!" Then he gazed ruefully at his canvas shoes that were a
size too big and not the thing for the season. "How are things?"
"Not bad," Petya mumbled, lowering his eyes.
"Tell me another," Gavrik said.
"On my honour!"
"Then why did you take to serving dinners at home?"
Petya blushed crimson.
"It's true, isn't it?" Gavrik insisted.
"What if it is?" Petya said.
"It means you're hard up for money."
"We are not."
"Yes, you are. You can't even make ends meet."
"What do you mean?"
"Come off it, Petya. You can't fool me. I know your old man was booted
out of his job and you haven't a kopek."
That was the first time Petya heard the truth about the family's
finances put so simply and crudely.
"How do you know?" he asked weakly.
"Who doesn't? It's the talk of the town. But don't worry, Petya, they
won't put him in the jug for it."
"Who ... won't be put in the jug?"
"Why, your old man."
"What are you talking about? What do you mean by the jug?"
Gavrik knew that Petya was naive but this was too much for him and he
burst out laughing.
"What a fellow! He doesn't even know what the 'jug' means! It means
being locked up in jail." "Where?"
"In jail!" Gavrik bellowed. "Do you know how people are jailed?"
Petya looked into Gavrik's serious eyes and for the first time he felt
really frightened.
"Take it easy, they won't put your dad in jail," Gavrik said hurriedly.
"They hardly ever jail people for Lev Tolstoi now. Take it from me." He bent
close to Petya and added in a whisper, "They're picking up people right and
left now for illegal books. For the Workers' Paper and The Social-Democrat
too. But Lev Tolstoi doesn't interest them any more."
Petya looked at Gavrik with uncomprehending eyes. "Oh, what's the use
of talking to you," Gavrik said disgustedly.
He had been ready to tell his friend the latest news: for instance,
that his brother Terenty had just returned from exile after all those years
and was now working in the railway-yard, that some of the committee members
had returned with him, that it was "business as usual" again as far as their
activities were concerned, and that it had not been his own idea to get a
job in the print-shop-he had been "spoken for" by these same committee
members for a very definite purpose. Gavrik was about to explain just
exactly what the purpose was, but he saw from Petya's expression that his
friend had not the slightest idea of what he was talking about, land so he
decided to keep mum for the time being.
"How's the dinners-at-home business going?" he asked, changing the
subject. "Are there any cranks who want them?"
Petya shook his head sadly.
"I see," Gavrik said.
"Then it's a flop?"
"Yes."
"What are you going to do?"
"Somebody might rent the rooms."
"You mean you're letting rooms too? Things must be bad!" Gavrik
whistled sympathetically.
"Don't worry, we'll manage. I can give lessons," Petya said stoically.
He had long since made up his mind to become a tutor and coach backward
pupils, but did not quite know how to go about it. As a rule only university
students or senior form boys gave lessons, but there was always room for the
exception. The main thing was to be lucky and find a pupil to coach.
"How can you give lessons when you probably -don't know a darn thing
yourself?" Gavrik said in his usual crude, straightforward way and sniggered
good-naturedly.
Petya was hurt. There had 'been a time when he had really fooled about
instead of swotting, but now he was putting everything he had into his
lessons.
"I'm only kidding," Gavrik said. Suddenly he had a bright idea and
quickly asked, "Look, can you teach Latin too?"
"What a question, of course I can!"
"That's the stuff!" Gavrik exclaimed. "How much would you charge to
coach someone for the third form Latin exams?"
"What do you mean: 'how much'?"
"How much money?"
"I don't know," Petya mumbled in confusion. "Some tutors charge a ruble
a lesson."
"That's far too much. Let's settle for half a ruble."
"What's it all about?" Petya asked.
"Never mind."
Gavrik stood silently for a few minutes, looking down at his moving
fingers, as if making calculations.
"Go on, tell me!" Petya insisted.
"It's nothing very special," Gavrik answered. "Let's go this way." And,
taking Petya by the arm, he led him down the street, peering into his face
sideways.
Gavrik never liked to talk about himself or disclose his plans to
people. Experience had taught him to be secretive. That was why, even though
he had made up his mind to let Petya in on the dream of his life, he could
not bring himself to talk about it, and so they both walked on in silence.
"You see," he began, "but first your word of honour that you won't tell
a soul."
"Honour bright!" Petya exclaimed and involuntarily, from force of
habit, crossed himself, looking the while at the cupolas of St. Panteleimon
Church that shone blue beyond Kulikovo Field.
Gavrik opened his eyes wide and whispered:
"Here's my idea: I want to pass the gymnasium exams for the first,
three forms without attending classes. Two chaps are helping me with the
other subjects, but I'm sort of stuck with Latin."
This was so unexpected that Petya stopped dead in his tracks.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"But why should you study?" Petya blurted out in surprise.
"Why do you study?" Gavrik said with a hard and pugnacious glitter in
his eye. "It's all right for you, but not for me-is that it? For all you
know, it may be more necessary for me than for you."
He might have told Petya that since Terenty had returned from exile he
had been talking a lot about the lack of educated people among the workers,
about the fact that new struggles lay ahead. Probably after consulting some
of the committee members, he had told Gavrik in no uncertain terms that
whether he liked it or not, he would have to pass the gymnasium exams: he
could first take the third form exams, then the sixth form exams, and then
the final school-leaving exams. But Gavrik told Petya nothing of all this.
"Well, are you willing to have a go?" he asked instead. "My offer's
half a ruble a lesson."
Petya felt embarrassed and, at the same time, flattered, and he blushed
a delicate pink with pleasure.
"Oh, I'm willing," he said, and coughed, "only not for money."
"What do you mean? Do you think I'm a beggar? I'm working. Half a ruble
a lesson, four lessons a month. That makes two silver pieces. I can afford
it."
"Nothing doing. I won't take money for the lessons."
"Why won't you take it? Don't be a fool! Money doesn't lie around in
the street. Especially now, when you're so hard up for it. At least you'll
be able to give Auntie something for food."
That had a great effect on Petya. He suddenly pictured himself handing
Auntie some money one fine day and saying nonchalantly, "Oh, it slipped my
mind completely, Auntie. Here, I've earned a bit by giving lessons, please
take it. It'll come in useful."
"All right," Petya answered. "I'll take you on. But remember: if you
start fooling around, it'll be good-bye. I'm not used to taking money for
nothing."
"I don't find it in the woodshed either," Gavrik said glumly. The
friends parted till Sunday, which was the lap-pointed day for the first
lesson.
Never had Petya prepared his own lessons so painstakingly as he was now
preparing for his lessons with Gavrik, for his first appearance in the role
of teacher. Proud and conscious of his responsibility, Petya did his very
best to ensure the success of his venture. He pestered Father with endless
questions about comparative linguistics. He consulted the Brockhaus and
Efron Encyclopaedia and made copious notes. At school he worried the Latin
master for explanations concerning the numerous rules of Latin syntax, a
fact which amazed the teacher, since -he had no great opinion of Petya's
diligence. Petya sharpened several pencils, got out pen and ink, dusted
Father's desk, and arranged on it Pavlik's globe, his own
twenty-five-powered microscope, and a few thick volumes-all with a view to
creating a strictly academic atmosphere and instilling in Gavrik a reverence
for science.
After dinner Vasily Petrovich left for the cemetery. Auntie took Pavlik
to an exhibition. Dunyasha had the afternoon off and went to visit her
relatives. Petya could not have wished for anything better. He paced up and
down the room with his hands behind his back like a veteran schoolmaster and
rehearsed his introductory speech for the first lesson. It would be wrong to
say that he was nervous, but he felt something akin to what a skater feels
as he is about to glide across the rink.
Gavrik was not long in coming. He appeared at exactly the appointed
hour. It was significant that he did not come up the back stairs and through
the kitchen, as was his wont, after whistling from the yard below; Gavrik
rang the front-door bell, said "hullo" quietly, hung up his threadbare coat
in the hall, and smoothed his hair in front of the mirror. His hands were
scrubbed clean, and before entering he carefully tucked his cotton shirt
with its mother-of-pearl buttons under his narrow belt. He had a new
five-kopek notebook with a pink blotter peeping out of it and a new pencil
stuck in the middle. Petya led his friend into the study and sat him down at
the desk, between microscope and globe, which objects drew a guarded look
from Gavrik.
"Well," Petya said sternly and suddenly became embarrassed.
He stopped, waited manfully for his bashfulness to pass, and then tried
once more:
"Well.... Latin is one of the richest and mightiest of the
Indo-European languages. Originally, as was the case with the Umbrian and
Oscan languages, it was one of the group of main dialects of the
non-Etruscan population of Central Italy, the dialect of the inhabitants of
the Latium Plain, whence the Romans came. Is that clear?"
"No," Gavrik said, shaking his head.
"What is unclear?"
"The main dialects of the non-Etruscans," Gavrik repeated carefully,
giving Petya a pitiful look.
"Never mind. You'll soon catch on. It's just because it's new to you.
Let's continue. At a time when the languages of the other peoples of
Italy-say, the Etruscans, Iiapygians, and Ligurians, not counting, of
course, the Umbrians and Sabellians who were akin to the Latins-remained, so
to speak, isolated as local dialects in secluded regions," Petya made a
circle with his arms in a highly professional manner to indicate that the
other languages of Italy had remained secluded, "thanks to the Romans, Latin
not only emerged as the main language of Italy, but developed into the
literary language as well." Petya raised his finger significantly. "Clear?"
"No," Gavrik repeated miserably and shook his head again. "You know
what, Petya? Show me their alphabet instead."
"I know what comes first better than you do," Petya said dryly.
"Maybe we can do the bit about the Etruscans and the Umbrians later,
just now I'd like to take a shot at those Latin letters. Huh?"
"Who's tutor here? You or me?"
"You."
"Very well then, pay attention."
"I'm listening," Gavrik said obediently.
"Good, let's continue," Petya said as he paced up and down with his
arms behind his back, enjoying every moment of his superiority and his
teacher's authority. "Well, er ... about three hundred years later, this
classical literary Latin lost its supremacy and was replaced by a popular
Latin, and so on, and so forth-anyway, it's not all that important." (Gavrik
nodded in agreement.) "The main thing, my friend, is that this very same
Latin finally ended up by having twenty letters in the alphabet, and then
three more were added to it."
"That makes it twenty-three!" Gavrik put in happily.
"Right. Twenty-three letters in all."
"What are they?"
"Don't rush into Hell before your father!" Petya intoned the Latin
master's favourite saying-subconsciously he had been imitating him all the
time. "The letters of the Latin alphabet, which you will now write down,
are: A, B, C, D...."
Gavrik sat up, licked the tip of his pencil, and began copying the
Latin letters gracefully.
"Wait a minute, silly, what are you doing? Write a Latin 'B,' not a
Russian one."
"What's the Latin one like?"
"The same as the Russian 'V.' Understand?"
"I'm not that dumb!"
"Erase what you've written and correct it."
Gavrik pulled a little piece of an "Elephant" India rubber carefully
wrapped up in a scrap of paper from one of the pockets of his wide corduroy
breeches, rubbed the elephant's backside vigorously over the Russian letter,
and wrote the Latin "B" in its place.
"Tell you what," Petya said-he was beginning to feel quite bored with
it all-"you just keep on copying the Latin letters from the book, land I'll
stretch my legs meanwhile."
Gavrik copied diligently, and Petya began to stretch his legs, that is,
he began to walk back and forth with his hands clasped behind him until,
finally, he came to a stop before the dining-room sideboard. It is a
well-known fact that all sideboards have a special magnetism where boys are
concerned, and it rarely happens that a boy passes a sideboard without
peeping in to see what it contains. Petya was no exception, the more so
since Auntie had been careless enough to say:
"... And keep away from the sideboard."
Petya knew perfectly well that she had in mind the large jar of
strawberry jam which his grandmother in Yekaterinoslav had sent them for
Christmas. They had not opened it yet, although it was meant for the
holidays, and as the holidays had already passed, Petya felt a bit
aggrieved. It was really hard to understand Auntie.
Usually so kind and generous, when it came to jam she became
monstrously, inexplicably stingy. One could not even hint at jam in her
presence. A terrified look would come into her eyes and she would rattle
off:
"No, no! By no means! Don't dare go near it. I'll give it to you when
the time comes."
But when that time would come, no one could say. She herself said
nothing and simply threw up her hands in alarm at the very idea. Actually,
it was all very stupid, for hadn't the jam been made and sent expressly for
the purpose of being eaten!
While stretching his legs, Petya opened the sideboard, got up on to a
chair and looked on the very top shelf where the heavy jar of Yekaterinoslav
jam stood. After admiring it for a while he closed the sideboard and
returned to his pupil. Gavrik was labouring away and had already got as far
as "N," which he did not know how to write. Petya helped him, praised his
penmanship, and noted casually:
"By the way, Grandma sent us a six-pound jar of strawberry jam for
Christmas."
"You don't say." '
"Honestly!"
"They don't make jars that big."
"Don't they?" Petya smiled sarcastically
"No, they don't."
"A fat lot you know about jars!" Petya mumbled and stalked into the
dining-room. When he returned, he gingerly placed the heavy jar on the desk
between globe and microscope. "Well, go on, say it's not a six-pounder."
"You win."
Gavrik drew his notebook closer land copied out three more Latin
letters: "O," identical with the Russian letter, "P," resembling the Russian
"R," and a rather strange-looking one called "Q," which gave him not a
little trouble.
"Fine!" Petya exclaimed. He hesitated a moment and added, "What do you
say to trying the jam? Want to?"
"I don't mind," Gavrik said. "But what'll Auntie say?"
"We'll just have a spoonful, she won't even notice the difference."
"Petya went to fetch a spoon, then he patiently untied the bow of the
tight cord. He carefully raised the top paper, which had taken the shape of
a lid and, still more carefully, removed the parchment disk beneath.
The disk had been soaked in rum to keep the jam from spoiling, and
directly underneath lay the glossy, placid surface. With the utmost caution
Petya and Gavrik helped themselves to a full spoon each.
The Yekaterinoslav grandmother was a famous jam-maker, and strawberry
jam was her pride. But this jam in particular was of unrivalled quality.
Never had Petya-to say nothing of Gavrik-tasted anything like it. It was
fragrant, thick, and, at the same time, ethereal, full of large transparent
berries, tender, choice, deliciously sprinkled all over with tiny yellow
seeds, and it just melted in their mouths.
They licked their spoons clean and made the happy discovery that,
actually, the quantity of jam in the jar hadn't gone down a bit-the surface
was still level with the top. No doubt, some physical law of large and small
quantities could well be applied to this particular case: the vast capacity
of the jar and the minute capacity of the tea-spoon, but since neither Petya
nor Gavrik as yet had any idea of this law, they thought it no less than a
That was all Petya could remember. There was a faint trace of a long past
grief that time had healed, the fear of his own death, and the gold letters
of Mother's name on the white marble slab from which the sexton had
carelessly brushed the snow just before they had arrived. Next to it was
Grandma's grave, and there was a vacant place between the two graves where,
as Vasily Petrovich was wont to say, he would one day be laid at rest
between his mother and his wife, the two women he had loved so faithfully
and steadfastly.
Petya crossed himself and bowed at the proper moments, he kept thinking
about his mother, and, at the same time, observed the priest, the
psalm-reader, Father, Pavlik, and Auntie. Pavlik was fidgeting all the time,
the turned-up hood irritated his ears and he kept tugging at it. Auntie was
weeping into her muff quietly. Father stood with eyes fixed on the
tombstone, his folded hands held humbly before him and his greying head with
the long seminarist's hair bent low. Petya knew Father was thinking about
Mother. But he had no idea of the terrible conflict raging within him.
Especially now did Vasily Petrovich miss her, her love, and her moral
support. He thought of the day when he, an eager young man, had read to her
his essay on Pushkin, of how they had both discussed it long and heatedly,
of the glorious morning, when he had put on his new uniform and was standing
in the hall, ready to set out to read his essay, and she had handed him his
freshly-pressed handkerchief, still warm from the hot iron, kissed him
fondly, and crossed him with her thin fingers; and afterwards, when he had
returned home in triumph, they had had a hearty dinner and little Petya,
whom they were training to be an independent young man, had smeared his
porridge all over his fat cheeks and kept repeating, "Daddy! Eat!" his black
eyes sparkling. How long ago, and yet, how close it all seemed! Now Vasily
Petrovich had to decide his fate alone.
For the first time in his life he understood clearly something that he
either could not or refused to understand before: that it was impossible in
Russia to be an honest and independent person if one held a government job.
One had to be a docile tsarist official, with no views of one's own, and
obey the orders of other officials-one's superiors-unquestioningly, no
matter how unjust or even criminal they might be. But worst of all, as far
as Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was the fact that the one responsible for
this state of affairs was none other than the Russian autocrat himself, the
Anointed of the Lord, in whose sanctity and infallibility Vasily Petrovich
had trusted so deeply and implicitly.
Now that this trust had been shaken, Vasily Petrovich turned
whole-heartedly to religion. He offered up prayers for his dead wife, and
implored divine help and guidance. But his prayers no longer brought him
consolation. He crossed himself, bowed low, and yet somehow or other he
seemed to see the priest and psalm-reader, who were rushing through the
service, in a new and different light. Their words and actions no longer
created the religious atmosphere of former years, but, instead, seemed
crude, unnatural, as if Vasily Petrovich himself was not praying, but only
observing two shamans performing some rite. That which formerly had moved
him deeply was now bereft of all its poetry.
The priest, in a mourning chasuble of brocade with a silver cross
embroidered on the back, his short arms wrapped in the dark sleeves of a
protruding tunic, was chanting the beautiful words of the requiem as he
deftly swung the censer to and fro, making the hot coals glow like rubies.
Purple smoke poured from it, turned grey quickly and melted in the wind,
leaving the air heavy with incense.
The psalm-reader had an enormous moustache and his winter overcoat was
exactly like Vasily Petrovich's, even to the frayed velvet collar. His
bulging eyes were reverently half closed, and his voice rose and fell as he
quickly echoed the priest's singing. Both priest and psalm-reader made a
pretence of not hurrying, although Vasily Petrovich could see they were
rushing the service, as they had to officiate at other graves where they
were eagerly awaited and whence impatient relatives were already signalling
them. Their relief was evident when they finally reached the last part and
put all their energy behind the words "the tears at the grave turn to
singing," etc., after which the Bachei family kissed the cold silver cross,
and while the psalm-reader was hurriedly wrapping it up in the stole, Vasily
Petrovich shook the priest's hand and awkwardly pressed two silver rubles
into his palm. The priest said, "I thank you!" and added, "I hear that
you're having trouble with the Education Department. Have faith in the Lord,
perhaps there is a way out. Good-bye for the present. Dreadful weather,
isn't it? A regular blizzard."
Vasily Petrovich had caught a faint trace of insult in those words.
Petya saw his face turn red. Suddenly there flashed into Vasily Petrovich's
mind the Education Department official bawling at him and his own
humiliating fear, and once again the feeling of pride, which until then he
had tried so hard to subordinate to Christian humility, welled up in him. At
that moment he decided that not for anything in the world would he
surrender, and if necessary he would suffer all the consequences for the
sake of Truth.
However, once they had returned home from the cemetery and he had
calmed down a little, his former doubts returned: had he the right to
jeopardize his family?
Meanwhile, the school holidays pursued their usual course, the only
difference being that this time they were not as jolly or as carefree as in
previous years.
Tedious and tiresome as usual was the waiting for nightfall on
Christmas Eve; appetizing smells drifted in from the kitchen while they
awaited the appearance of the first star in the window-the signal to light
the lamps and sit down to dinner and Christmas pudding. They had the usual
Christmas party next day, and carol-singers came in carrying a star hung
with tinsel and a round paper icon in the centre. Blue diamonds of moonlight
glittered festively and mysteriously on the frosted window-panes, and on New
Year's Eve there was apple pie with a new silver coin hidden in it for good
luck. The regimental bands played as usual in the clear, frosty noonday for
the Twelfth-Day parade on Cathedral Square. The holidays were coming to an
end. Some kind of decision had to be made. Vasily Petrovich became
despondent, and his depression affected the boys. Auntie alone tried to keep
up the holiday spirit. She put on a new silk dress, and all her favourite
rings were brought out to adorn her slender fingers; she smelled of "Coeur
de Jeannette" perfume, and she would sit at the piano, open a large folio,
and play Madame Vyaltseva's repertoire of waltzes, polkas, and gipsy
serenades. On Twelfth-Day Eve she decided to have the traditional
fortune-telling. They poured cold water into a basin and dropped melted
paraffin into it, as they had no wax, and then interpreted the various
shapes it froze into; in the kitchen they burned balls of crumpled paper and
then told the meaning of the shadows cast by them on the freshly whitewashed
wall. But there was something strained in all this.
Late at night-the last night of the school holidays-Petya, who was
drowsing off to sleep, again heard Father and Auntie talking heatedly in the
dining-room.
"You cannot and you must not do such a thing!" Auntie was saying in an
excited voice. "What then?" Father asked, and there was a sharp click as he
cracked his knuckles. "What shall I do? How shall we live? Have I the right
to do this? What a tragedy that Zhenya is no longer with us!"
"Believe me, if Zhenya were here now, she would never let you grovel
before these officials!"
Petya soon fell asleep and did not hear any more, but an astonishing
thing happened the next morning: for the first time in his life Vasily
Petrovich did not put on his frock-coat and did not go to his classes.
Instead, the cook was sent to the shop for "ministerial" stationery, and
Vasily Petrovich wrote out his resignation in his clear flowing hand,
unadorned by flourishes or curlicues.
His resignation was accepted coldly. However, there was no further
unpleasantness-apparently, it was not in the interests of the Education
Department to have the story spread round. And so, Vasily Petrovich found
himself out of a job, the most terrible thing that could hap-
pen to a family man with no other means of support except his salary.
Vasily Petrovich had put aside a little money a long time ago; he had
dreamed of going abroad with his wife, and then, after her death, with his
'boys. Now that dream evaporated. This money, together with what he would
get from the mutual aid society, would see the family through the next year,
if they lived frugally. But it was still a mystery how they were to exist
after that, especially as another question arose: how were Petya and Pavlik
to continue at the gymnasium? As the sons of a teacher they had been exempt
from tuition fees; now, however, he would have to pay out of their meagre
budget a sum that was beyond his means.
But worst of all, where Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was his
enforced idleness, for he had been used to work all his life. He did not
know what to do with himself and hung around the house for days on end in
his old jacket, forgetting to go to the barber's, looking older every day,
and making frequent visits to the cemetery where he spent long hours at his
wife's grave.
Pavlik, still too young to be touched by the terrible thing that had
befallen them, continued his former carefree existence. But Petya understood
everything. The thought that he would have to leave school, remove the
cockade from his cap and wear his uniform with hooks instead of shiny metal
buttons, as was the case with boys who had been expelled or had not
matriculated, made him blush with shame. Things were aggravated by an
ominous change in the attitude of the teachers and some of his class-mates.
In short, the New Year could not have begun worse. Petya was most
unhappy and was amazed to see that Auntie, far from being upset or
down-hearted, gave the impression of everything being fine. There was a look
of determination in her eye which implied that she was going to save the
family at all costs.
Her plan was as follows: she would serve tasty, nourishing, and
inexpensive home-cooked meals to working intellectuals, which, to her mind,
would yield enough to keep the family in food. In order to add to the income
Auntie decided to move into the dining-room, move the cook into the kitchen,
and let the two rooms, thus vacated, with board.
Father winced painfully at the mere thought of his home being turned
into an "eating-house," but as there was no other way out, he gave in and
said:
"Do whatever you think best."
That was Auntie's green light. "To let" notices that could be read
clearly from the street were pasted on the windows of the two rooms. On the
gate-post they nailed a little board that said: "Dinners served." It had
been done artistically in oils by Petya and depicted a steaming tureen with
the inscription mentioning single working intellectuals. Auntie believed
that this would impart a social, political, and even an opposition note to
their commercial undertaking. She began to buy new kitchen utensils and put
in a stock of the best and freshest foods; she had a new calico dress and
snow-white apron made for Dunyasha and spent most of her time studying the
Molokhovets Cookery Book, that bible of every well-to-do home. She copied
the most useful recipes into a special notebook and made up tasty and
nourishing menus.
Never before had the Bachei family eaten so well-or, rather, feasted
so. After a month's time they had all put on weight, including Vasily
Petrovich, a fact that seemed strangely at variance with his status of a man
persecuted by the government.
All would have gone well, perhaps even brilliantly, had it not been for
the lack of customers. One might have thought that all the professional
people had agreed never to dine again.
True, the first few days brought some customers. Two well-dressed
bearded gentlemen with sunken cheeks and a fanatical glitter in their eyes
called, discovered that there were no vegetarian dishes on the menu, and
stamped out without bothering to say good-bye.
Then a saucy orderly in a peakless cap, serving in the Modlinsky
Regiment, came in at the back door and asked for two portions of
cabbage-soup for his officer. Auntie explained that there was no
cabbage-soup on the menu, but that there was soupe printaniere. That, said
the soldier, was quite all right with him, provided there was plenty of
bread to go with it, as his gentleman had lost all his money at cards and
was sitting in his quarters with a bad cold and nothing hot in his stomach
for nearly two days. Auntie gave him two portions of soupe printaniere and
plenty of bread on credit, and the orderly doubled down the stairs on his
short, thick legs in worn-down boots, leaving the heavy odour of an infantry
barracks in the kitchen. Two days later he appeared again; this time he
carried off two portions of bouillon and meat patties, also on credit, and
promised to pay as soon as his gentleman won back his money; apparently, his
gentleman never did, because the soldier disappeared for good.
No one else came to dine.
As far as letting the two rooms was concerned, things were not much
better. The very day they put the little cards in the window a newly-wed
couple made inquiries: he was a young army surgeon, and everything he had on
was new and resplendent; she was a plump, dimpled blonde with a beauty-mark
over her Cupid's-bow lips, wearing a squirrel-lined cloak and pert bonnet,
and carrying a tiny muff on a cord. They seemed to be the personification of
happiness. Their new, twenty-four carat gold wedding-rings shone so
dazzlingly, they were surrounded by such a fragrant aroma of scented soap,
cold cream, brilliantine, hair tonic, and Brokar perfume, the mixture of
which seemed to Petya the very essence of newly-weddedness, that the Bachei
flat with its old wallpaper and poorly-waxed floors suddenly appeared to be
small, shabby, and dark.
While the young couple was looking over the rooms, the husband never
once let go of his wife's arm, as if he were afraid she'd run off somewhere;
the wife, in turn, pressed close to him as she looked round in horror and
exclaimed in a loud singsong voice:
"Dahling, it's a barm! It's a real bahn! It smells like a kitchen! No,
no, it's not at all what we're looking for!"
They left hurriedly. The army surgeon's silver spurs tinkled
delicately, and the young wife raised her skirts squeamishly and stepped
gingerly as if afraid to soil her tiny new shoes. It was only after the
downstairs door had banged behind them that Petya realized the strange
foreign word "bahn" was just plain "barn," and he felt so hurt he could have
cried. Auntie's ears were still burning long after they had gone.
No one else came to see the rooms. And so Auntie's plans failed. The
spectre of poverty again rose up before the Bachei family. Despair banished
all hopes. Who knows what the outcome would have been, if salvation had not
come one fine day-out of the blue, as it always does.
It was really a glorious day, one of those March days when the snow has
melted, the earth is black, a watery blueness breaks through the clouds over
the bare branches of the orchards, a fresh breeze sweeps the first dust
along the dry pavements, and the incessant tolling of the Lenten bells booms
over the city like a great bass string. The bakeries sold pastry "skylarks"
with charred raisin eyes, and swarms of rooks circled over Cathedral Square,
over the huge corner house, over Libman's Cafe, and over the double-headed
eagle above Gayevsky's, the chemist's, their spring din and clamour drowning
out the sounds of the city.
It was a day Petya would long remember. It was the day he became a
tutor and, for the first time in his life, was to be paid for a Latin lesson
he gave to another boy. This other boy was Gavrik.
A few days before, on his way home from school, Petya was walking along
slowly, lost in unhappy thoughts and visualizing the day in the near future
when he would be expelled from the gymnasium for arrears of fees.
Suddenly, someone crashed into him from behind and punched his satchel
so hard that his pencil-box shook and clattered. Petya stumbled and nearly
fell; he turned, ready to charge his unseen enemy, and saw Gavrik, his feet
planted apart and a grin on his face.
"Hi, Petya! Where've you been all this time?"
"It's you, you tramp! You're a fine chap, hitting one of your own!"
"Go on! I socked the satchel, not you."
"What if I had fallen?"
"I'd have caught you."
"How are things?"
"Not too bad. Earning a living."
Gavrik lived in Near Mills and Petya rarely saw him nowadays, but their
childhood friendship was as strong as ever. Whenever they would meet and ask
each other the usual "How are things?" Petya would shrug his shoulders and
answer, "Still at school," while Gavrik would furrow his small round
forehead and say, "Earning la living." Each time they met, Petya would hear
the latest story, which inevitably ended the same way: either the current
employer had gone bankrupt or he had cheated Gavrik out of his pay. Such was
the case with the owner of the bathing beach between Sredny Fontan and
Arcadia who had employed Gavrik for the season to unlock the bathing-boxes,
take charge of hiring the striped bathing-suits, and keep an eye on the
bathers' clothes. The beach owner disappeared at the end of the season
without paying him a kopek, all he had had in the end were his tips. It was
the same with the Greek who had hired a gang of dockers and who had brazenly
cheated the men out of more than half their wages. It was the same again
when he had worked as bill-poster, and on many of the other jobs which he
had taken in the hope of being at least a little help to Terenty's family
and at the same time earning a bit for himself.
It was much more fun, although just as unprofitable in the long run, to
work in the "Bioscope Realite" cinema on Richelieu Street, near the
Alexandrovsky police-station In those days the cinema, that famous invention
of the Lumiere brothers, was no longer a novelty, but, none the less, the
magic of "moving pictures" continued to amaze the world. Cinemas mushroomed
up all over the city, -and they became known as "illusions."
An "illusion" signified a multi-coloured electric-light bill-board,
sometimes even with moving letters, and the bravura thunder of the pianola,
a mechanical piano whose keys were pressed down and raced back and forth
automatically, instilling in the audience a greater feeling of awe towards
the inventions of the 20th century. Usually there were slot-machines in the
foyer, and if you put five kopeks in the slot a bar of chocolate would slip
out mysteriously, or brightly-coloured sugar eggs would roll out from under
a bronze hen. Sometimes there would be a wax figure on exhibition in a glass
case. As yet there were no specially built theatres for the "illusions," and
the general practice was to rent a flat and use the largest room for the
screen.
Madame Valiadis, widow of a Greek, an enterprising and highly
imaginative woman, owned the "Bioscope Realite." She decided to wipe out all
her rivals at once. To this end she first engaged Mr. Zingertal, a famous
singer of topical ditties, to appear before each showing, and second, she
decided to revolutionize the silent film by introducing sound effects.
Crowds thronged to the "Bioscope Realite."
Mr. Zingertal, the popular favourite, duly appeared before each
performance in front of a small screen in the former dining-room decorated
with old flowered paper, a room as long and narrow as a pencil-box.
Zingertal, a tall, thin Jew, wore a rather long frock-coat, yellowed pique
vest, striped trousers, white spats and a black top hat which pressed down
on his protruding ears. With a Mephistophelian smile on his long,
clean-shaven, lined and hollow-cheeked face, he sang the popular tunes of
the day, accompanying himself on a tiny violin, tunes such as "The Odessa
girl is the girl for me," "The soldier boys are marching," and, finally, his
hit song "Zingertal, my robin, play me on your violin." Then Madame Valiadis
came on, wearing an ostrich hat and opera gloves minus the fingers to show
off her rings; she sat at the battered old piano and, as the lights dimmed,
began pounding out the accompaniment.
The lamp of the projector hissed, the film buzzed and rattled on, and
tiny, cramped red or blue captions, which seemed to have been typed on a
typewriter, appeared on the screen. Then, in quick succession, carne the
shorts: a panorama of a cloudy Swiss lake that moved along jerkily and with
great effort, followed by a Pathe news-reel with a train thundering into a
station and a parade of helmeted, goose-stepping foreign soldiers who
flashed by so quickly that they seemed to be running-all this was seen as if
through a veil of rain or snow. Then Bleriot's monoplane emerged from the
clouds for an instant-his famous Channel flight from Calais to Dover. Then
came the comedy, and this was Madame Valiadis' greatest moment. Behind the
flickering veil of raindrops a little monkey-like man called Knucklehead,
learning to ride a bicycle, kept bumping into things and knocking them over;
the audience not only saw all this, they heard it as well. The crash and
tinkle of falling glass accompanied the shattering of street lamps on the
screen. Pails banged and clattered as house-painters in blouses tumbled off
ladders and landed on the pavement. Dozens of dinner-sets were smashed to
bits as they slid and dropped from the display window of a china shop. A cat
mewed hysterically when the bicycle wheels rolled over its tail. The enraged
crowd shook their fists and chased the fleeing Knucklehead. Police whistles
screamed. Dogs barked. A fire-engine tore past. Bursts of laughter shook the
darkened "illusion" room. And all the while, unseen by the audience, Gavrik
sweated, earning his fifty kopeks a day. It was he who waited for his cue to
smash the crockery, blow a whistle, bark, mew, ring a bell, shout "Catch
him! Hold him!", stamp his feet to give the effect of a running mob, and
dump on the floor a crate of broken glass, drowning out the unmerciful
pounding on the battered keys that was Ma dame Valiadis' contribution on the
other side of the screen.
Petya helped Gavrik on several occasions. The two of them would raise
such a rumpus behind the screen that crowds would gather in the street. The
popularity of the electric theatre grew tremendously.
But the avaricious widow was far from satisfied. Aware that the public
liked politics, she ordered Zingertal to freshen up his repertoire with
something political, and then raised the price of admission. Zingertal
shrugged his shoulders, smiled his Mephistophelian smile and said, "As you
wish"; next day he appeared with a new number entitled "Neckties, neckties"
instead of the old "The soldier boys are marching."
Pressing the tiny violin to his shoulder with his blue horse-like chin,
he flourished his bow, winked slyly at the audience, and, hinting at
Stolypin, began:
Our Premier, Mr. X,
Hangs ties on people's necks,
A habit which we dreadfully deplore....
Zingertal was thrown out of the city within twenty-four hours; Madame
Valiadis, forced to piay enormous bribes to the police and to close her
"illusion," was ruined, while Gavrik was paid only a quarter of what he had
earned.
GAVRIK'S DREAM
Now Gavrik was standing next to 'Petya in a greasy blue cotton smock
over a tattered coat with a worn-out Astrakhan collar and cap to match, like
those warn by middle-aged bookbinders, type-setters and waiters. ' Petya
realized immediately that his friend had changed jobs again and was earning
his daily bread at some other trade.
Gavrik was going on fifteen. His voice had changed to a youthful bass.
He had not grown very much, but his shoulders were broader and stronger, and
there were fewer freckles on his nose. His features had become more definite
and his clear eyes were firm. And yet, there was still much of the child
about him-such as his deliberate rolling sailor's gait, his habit of
wrinkling his round forehead when puzzled by something- and his amazing
accuracy in spitting through tightly-clenched teeth.
"Well, where are you working now?" Petya asked, his eyes taking in
Gavrik's strange outfit.
"In the Odessa Leaflet print-shop."
"Tell me another!"
"It's the truth!"
"What do you do there?"'
"I deliver the ad proofs to the clients."
"Proofs?" Petya said doubtfully.
"Sure, proofs. Why?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Maybe you've never seen proof-sheets? Here, I'll show you some. See?"
With these words Gavrik put his hand into the breast pocket of his
smock and pulled out a couple of packets of wet paper reeking of kerosene.
"Let me see!" Petya cried, grabbing a packet.
"Keep your paws off," Gavrik said good-naturedly, not at all in anger
or from a desire to offend Petya, but out of sheer habit.
"Come here, I'll show them to you."
The boys walked over to an iron post near the gates, and Gavrik
unrolled a damp paper covered all over with newspaper advertisements as
black and as greasy as shoe polish. Most of them were illustrated, and Petya
immediately recognized them from the pages of the Odessa Leaflet, which the
Bachei family took in. Here were the Fleetfoot Shoes and the Guide Galoshes,
waterproofs with peaked hoods sold by Lurie Bros., Faberge diamonds in open
jewel cases, with black lines radiating from them, bottles of Shustov's
rowan-berry brandy, theatre lyres, furriers' tigers, harness-makers' steeds,
the black cats of fortune-tellers and palmists, skates, carriages, toys,
suits, fur coats, pianos and balalaikas, biscuits and elaborate cream cakes,
Lloyd's ocean liners, and railway locomotives. And, finally, there were the
impressive-looking, long, uninterrupted columns of joint-stock company
reports and bank balances, showing their investments and fantastic
dividends.
Gavrik's small, strong, ink-stained hands held the damp newspaper
sheet, that magic, miniature record of the wealth of a big industrial and
trading centre, so far beyond the reach of Gavrik and the thousands of other
ordinary working people like him.
"There you are!" Gavrik said, and when he noticed that Petya seemed to
be reflecting on the nature of man's wealth, an exercise in which he himself
had often indulged when reading the ads or the signs and posters, he sighed
and added, "Proofs!" Then he gazed ruefully at his canvas shoes that were a
size too big and not the thing for the season. "How are things?"
"Not bad," Petya mumbled, lowering his eyes.
"Tell me another," Gavrik said.
"On my honour!"
"Then why did you take to serving dinners at home?"
Petya blushed crimson.
"It's true, isn't it?" Gavrik insisted.
"What if it is?" Petya said.
"It means you're hard up for money."
"We are not."
"Yes, you are. You can't even make ends meet."
"What do you mean?"
"Come off it, Petya. You can't fool me. I know your old man was booted
out of his job and you haven't a kopek."
That was the first time Petya heard the truth about the family's
finances put so simply and crudely.
"How do you know?" he asked weakly.
"Who doesn't? It's the talk of the town. But don't worry, Petya, they
won't put him in the jug for it."
"Who ... won't be put in the jug?"
"Why, your old man."
"What are you talking about? What do you mean by the jug?"
Gavrik knew that Petya was naive but this was too much for him and he
burst out laughing.
"What a fellow! He doesn't even know what the 'jug' means! It means
being locked up in jail." "Where?"
"In jail!" Gavrik bellowed. "Do you know how people are jailed?"
Petya looked into Gavrik's serious eyes and for the first time he felt
really frightened.
"Take it easy, they won't put your dad in jail," Gavrik said hurriedly.
"They hardly ever jail people for Lev Tolstoi now. Take it from me." He bent
close to Petya and added in a whisper, "They're picking up people right and
left now for illegal books. For the Workers' Paper and The Social-Democrat
too. But Lev Tolstoi doesn't interest them any more."
Petya looked at Gavrik with uncomprehending eyes. "Oh, what's the use
of talking to you," Gavrik said disgustedly.
He had been ready to tell his friend the latest news: for instance,
that his brother Terenty had just returned from exile after all those years
and was now working in the railway-yard, that some of the committee members
had returned with him, that it was "business as usual" again as far as their
activities were concerned, and that it had not been his own idea to get a
job in the print-shop-he had been "spoken for" by these same committee
members for a very definite purpose. Gavrik was about to explain just
exactly what the purpose was, but he saw from Petya's expression that his
friend had not the slightest idea of what he was talking about, land so he
decided to keep mum for the time being.
"How's the dinners-at-home business going?" he asked, changing the
subject. "Are there any cranks who want them?"
Petya shook his head sadly.
"I see," Gavrik said.
"Then it's a flop?"
"Yes."
"What are you going to do?"
"Somebody might rent the rooms."
"You mean you're letting rooms too? Things must be bad!" Gavrik
whistled sympathetically.
"Don't worry, we'll manage. I can give lessons," Petya said stoically.
He had long since made up his mind to become a tutor and coach backward
pupils, but did not quite know how to go about it. As a rule only university
students or senior form boys gave lessons, but there was always room for the
exception. The main thing was to be lucky and find a pupil to coach.
"How can you give lessons when you probably -don't know a darn thing
yourself?" Gavrik said in his usual crude, straightforward way and sniggered
good-naturedly.
Petya was hurt. There had 'been a time when he had really fooled about
instead of swotting, but now he was putting everything he had into his
lessons.
"I'm only kidding," Gavrik said. Suddenly he had a bright idea and
quickly asked, "Look, can you teach Latin too?"
"What a question, of course I can!"
"That's the stuff!" Gavrik exclaimed. "How much would you charge to
coach someone for the third form Latin exams?"
"What do you mean: 'how much'?"
"How much money?"
"I don't know," Petya mumbled in confusion. "Some tutors charge a ruble
a lesson."
"That's far too much. Let's settle for half a ruble."
"What's it all about?" Petya asked.
"Never mind."
Gavrik stood silently for a few minutes, looking down at his moving
fingers, as if making calculations.
"Go on, tell me!" Petya insisted.
"It's nothing very special," Gavrik answered. "Let's go this way." And,
taking Petya by the arm, he led him down the street, peering into his face
sideways.
Gavrik never liked to talk about himself or disclose his plans to
people. Experience had taught him to be secretive. That was why, even though
he had made up his mind to let Petya in on the dream of his life, he could
not bring himself to talk about it, and so they both walked on in silence.
"You see," he began, "but first your word of honour that you won't tell
a soul."
"Honour bright!" Petya exclaimed and involuntarily, from force of
habit, crossed himself, looking the while at the cupolas of St. Panteleimon
Church that shone blue beyond Kulikovo Field.
Gavrik opened his eyes wide and whispered:
"Here's my idea: I want to pass the gymnasium exams for the first,
three forms without attending classes. Two chaps are helping me with the
other subjects, but I'm sort of stuck with Latin."
This was so unexpected that Petya stopped dead in his tracks.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"But why should you study?" Petya blurted out in surprise.
"Why do you study?" Gavrik said with a hard and pugnacious glitter in
his eye. "It's all right for you, but not for me-is that it? For all you
know, it may be more necessary for me than for you."
He might have told Petya that since Terenty had returned from exile he
had been talking a lot about the lack of educated people among the workers,
about the fact that new struggles lay ahead. Probably after consulting some
of the committee members, he had told Gavrik in no uncertain terms that
whether he liked it or not, he would have to pass the gymnasium exams: he
could first take the third form exams, then the sixth form exams, and then
the final school-leaving exams. But Gavrik told Petya nothing of all this.
"Well, are you willing to have a go?" he asked instead. "My offer's
half a ruble a lesson."
Petya felt embarrassed and, at the same time, flattered, and he blushed
a delicate pink with pleasure.
"Oh, I'm willing," he said, and coughed, "only not for money."
"What do you mean? Do you think I'm a beggar? I'm working. Half a ruble
a lesson, four lessons a month. That makes two silver pieces. I can afford
it."
"Nothing doing. I won't take money for the lessons."
"Why won't you take it? Don't be a fool! Money doesn't lie around in
the street. Especially now, when you're so hard up for it. At least you'll
be able to give Auntie something for food."
That had a great effect on Petya. He suddenly pictured himself handing
Auntie some money one fine day and saying nonchalantly, "Oh, it slipped my
mind completely, Auntie. Here, I've earned a bit by giving lessons, please
take it. It'll come in useful."
"All right," Petya answered. "I'll take you on. But remember: if you
start fooling around, it'll be good-bye. I'm not used to taking money for
nothing."
"I don't find it in the woodshed either," Gavrik said glumly. The
friends parted till Sunday, which was the lap-pointed day for the first
lesson.
Never had Petya prepared his own lessons so painstakingly as he was now
preparing for his lessons with Gavrik, for his first appearance in the role
of teacher. Proud and conscious of his responsibility, Petya did his very
best to ensure the success of his venture. He pestered Father with endless
questions about comparative linguistics. He consulted the Brockhaus and
Efron Encyclopaedia and made copious notes. At school he worried the Latin
master for explanations concerning the numerous rules of Latin syntax, a
fact which amazed the teacher, since -he had no great opinion of Petya's
diligence. Petya sharpened several pencils, got out pen and ink, dusted
Father's desk, and arranged on it Pavlik's globe, his own
twenty-five-powered microscope, and a few thick volumes-all with a view to
creating a strictly academic atmosphere and instilling in Gavrik a reverence
for science.
After dinner Vasily Petrovich left for the cemetery. Auntie took Pavlik
to an exhibition. Dunyasha had the afternoon off and went to visit her
relatives. Petya could not have wished for anything better. He paced up and
down the room with his hands behind his back like a veteran schoolmaster and
rehearsed his introductory speech for the first lesson. It would be wrong to
say that he was nervous, but he felt something akin to what a skater feels
as he is about to glide across the rink.
Gavrik was not long in coming. He appeared at exactly the appointed
hour. It was significant that he did not come up the back stairs and through
the kitchen, as was his wont, after whistling from the yard below; Gavrik
rang the front-door bell, said "hullo" quietly, hung up his threadbare coat
in the hall, and smoothed his hair in front of the mirror. His hands were
scrubbed clean, and before entering he carefully tucked his cotton shirt
with its mother-of-pearl buttons under his narrow belt. He had a new
five-kopek notebook with a pink blotter peeping out of it and a new pencil
stuck in the middle. Petya led his friend into the study and sat him down at
the desk, between microscope and globe, which objects drew a guarded look
from Gavrik.
"Well," Petya said sternly and suddenly became embarrassed.
He stopped, waited manfully for his bashfulness to pass, and then tried
once more:
"Well.... Latin is one of the richest and mightiest of the
Indo-European languages. Originally, as was the case with the Umbrian and
Oscan languages, it was one of the group of main dialects of the
non-Etruscan population of Central Italy, the dialect of the inhabitants of
the Latium Plain, whence the Romans came. Is that clear?"
"No," Gavrik said, shaking his head.
"What is unclear?"
"The main dialects of the non-Etruscans," Gavrik repeated carefully,
giving Petya a pitiful look.
"Never mind. You'll soon catch on. It's just because it's new to you.
Let's continue. At a time when the languages of the other peoples of
Italy-say, the Etruscans, Iiapygians, and Ligurians, not counting, of
course, the Umbrians and Sabellians who were akin to the Latins-remained, so
to speak, isolated as local dialects in secluded regions," Petya made a
circle with his arms in a highly professional manner to indicate that the
other languages of Italy had remained secluded, "thanks to the Romans, Latin
not only emerged as the main language of Italy, but developed into the
literary language as well." Petya raised his finger significantly. "Clear?"
"No," Gavrik repeated miserably and shook his head again. "You know
what, Petya? Show me their alphabet instead."
"I know what comes first better than you do," Petya said dryly.
"Maybe we can do the bit about the Etruscans and the Umbrians later,
just now I'd like to take a shot at those Latin letters. Huh?"
"Who's tutor here? You or me?"
"You."
"Very well then, pay attention."
"I'm listening," Gavrik said obediently.
"Good, let's continue," Petya said as he paced up and down with his
arms behind his back, enjoying every moment of his superiority and his
teacher's authority. "Well, er ... about three hundred years later, this
classical literary Latin lost its supremacy and was replaced by a popular
Latin, and so on, and so forth-anyway, it's not all that important." (Gavrik
nodded in agreement.) "The main thing, my friend, is that this very same
Latin finally ended up by having twenty letters in the alphabet, and then
three more were added to it."
"That makes it twenty-three!" Gavrik put in happily.
"Right. Twenty-three letters in all."
"What are they?"
"Don't rush into Hell before your father!" Petya intoned the Latin
master's favourite saying-subconsciously he had been imitating him all the
time. "The letters of the Latin alphabet, which you will now write down,
are: A, B, C, D...."
Gavrik sat up, licked the tip of his pencil, and began copying the
Latin letters gracefully.
"Wait a minute, silly, what are you doing? Write a Latin 'B,' not a
Russian one."
"What's the Latin one like?"
"The same as the Russian 'V.' Understand?"
"I'm not that dumb!"
"Erase what you've written and correct it."
Gavrik pulled a little piece of an "Elephant" India rubber carefully
wrapped up in a scrap of paper from one of the pockets of his wide corduroy
breeches, rubbed the elephant's backside vigorously over the Russian letter,
and wrote the Latin "B" in its place.
"Tell you what," Petya said-he was beginning to feel quite bored with
it all-"you just keep on copying the Latin letters from the book, land I'll
stretch my legs meanwhile."
Gavrik copied diligently, and Petya began to stretch his legs, that is,
he began to walk back and forth with his hands clasped behind him until,
finally, he came to a stop before the dining-room sideboard. It is a
well-known fact that all sideboards have a special magnetism where boys are
concerned, and it rarely happens that a boy passes a sideboard without
peeping in to see what it contains. Petya was no exception, the more so
since Auntie had been careless enough to say:
"... And keep away from the sideboard."
Petya knew perfectly well that she had in mind the large jar of
strawberry jam which his grandmother in Yekaterinoslav had sent them for
Christmas. They had not opened it yet, although it was meant for the
holidays, and as the holidays had already passed, Petya felt a bit
aggrieved. It was really hard to understand Auntie.
Usually so kind and generous, when it came to jam she became
monstrously, inexplicably stingy. One could not even hint at jam in her
presence. A terrified look would come into her eyes and she would rattle
off:
"No, no! By no means! Don't dare go near it. I'll give it to you when
the time comes."
But when that time would come, no one could say. She herself said
nothing and simply threw up her hands in alarm at the very idea. Actually,
it was all very stupid, for hadn't the jam been made and sent expressly for
the purpose of being eaten!
While stretching his legs, Petya opened the sideboard, got up on to a
chair and looked on the very top shelf where the heavy jar of Yekaterinoslav
jam stood. After admiring it for a while he closed the sideboard and
returned to his pupil. Gavrik was labouring away and had already got as far
as "N," which he did not know how to write. Petya helped him, praised his
penmanship, and noted casually:
"By the way, Grandma sent us a six-pound jar of strawberry jam for
Christmas."
"You don't say." '
"Honestly!"
"They don't make jars that big."
"Don't they?" Petya smiled sarcastically
"No, they don't."
"A fat lot you know about jars!" Petya mumbled and stalked into the
dining-room. When he returned, he gingerly placed the heavy jar on the desk
between globe and microscope. "Well, go on, say it's not a six-pounder."
"You win."
Gavrik drew his notebook closer land copied out three more Latin
letters: "O," identical with the Russian letter, "P," resembling the Russian
"R," and a rather strange-looking one called "Q," which gave him not a
little trouble.
"Fine!" Petya exclaimed. He hesitated a moment and added, "What do you
say to trying the jam? Want to?"
"I don't mind," Gavrik said. "But what'll Auntie say?"
"We'll just have a spoonful, she won't even notice the difference."
"Petya went to fetch a spoon, then he patiently untied the bow of the
tight cord. He carefully raised the top paper, which had taken the shape of
a lid and, still more carefully, removed the parchment disk beneath.
The disk had been soaked in rum to keep the jam from spoiling, and
directly underneath lay the glossy, placid surface. With the utmost caution
Petya and Gavrik helped themselves to a full spoon each.
The Yekaterinoslav grandmother was a famous jam-maker, and strawberry
jam was her pride. But this jam in particular was of unrivalled quality.
Never had Petya-to say nothing of Gavrik-tasted anything like it. It was
fragrant, thick, and, at the same time, ethereal, full of large transparent
berries, tender, choice, deliciously sprinkled all over with tiny yellow
seeds, and it just melted in their mouths.
They licked their spoons clean and made the happy discovery that,
actually, the quantity of jam in the jar hadn't gone down a bit-the surface
was still level with the top. No doubt, some physical law of large and small
quantities could well be applied to this particular case: the vast capacity
of the jar and the minute capacity of the tea-spoon, but since neither Petya
nor Gavrik as yet had any idea of this law, they thought it no less than a